


Just Breathe

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Breathless", Angst, Arthur Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Re-feeding Syndrome, Sickfic, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde, Young Hosea Matthews, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, Alt. Prompt #13: "Breathless"In those days, re-feeding syndrome wasn’t something that was known about. It happened, of course. But not often enough to draw attention, and could easily be attributed to the person’s circumstances. It would be another sixty years before it was truly studied, when prisoners taken out of concentration camps began to be killed in great numbers by well-meaning rescuers. But in the 1870’s, there was no way to truly track the amount of deaths from re-feeding and, even if there was, there was no reason for people like them to have any knowledge about it.So it had been an accident, a well meaning one, but still one that had harmed him in the end.





	Just Breathe

They really had meant well.

Arthur had just been so… _skinny_. Years on the streets, and growing up with that horrible man, had shown. His skin had clung to his bones, and watching him move had been downright scary. 

So it was only natural they’d start feeding him. Force stew and meat down his throat, make him eat as much as he could. And he definitely wasn’t complaining; they weren’t the best cooks, not even close, but it was far better than the stale bread and scraps he’d been living off of for who knows how long. Keeping the three of them fed was an effort in itself, and they found themselves hunting far more than they’d ever done before. But it was worth it, if you asked them. The boy was still scared, and skittish, but feeding him was quickly earning his trust.

  
  


In those days, re-feeding syndrome wasn’t something that was known about. It happened, of course. But not often enough to draw attention, and could easily be attributed to the person’s circumstances. It would be another sixty years before it was truly studied, when prisoners taken out of concentration camps began to be killed in great numbers by well-meaning rescuers. But in the 1870’s, there was no way to truly track the amount of deaths from re-feeding and, even if there was, there was no reason for people like them to have any knowledge about it.

So it had been an accident, a well meaning one, but still one that had harmed him in the end.

  
  


It had happened on a night they’d been celebrating. They’d robbed a train earlier in the day, and made out like, well, bandits. So Hosea had gone into town and bought a great deal of food: stews and canned beans, chocolates and other treats. Canned peaches, which he had discovered were the boy’s favorite. He’d bought the boy a new tent, too, supposed to be better at keeping water out, as well as new blankets for his cot. Knowing that Dutch would sulk if he didn’t get anything as well, he’d bought the man a new pocketwatch.

The celebration had been fun. They’d watched as Arthur choked on his first beer, spluttering and wrinkling his nose. Wolfed down a can of baked beans before eating himself near sick on the chocolates Hosea kept offering him, and gulped down the can of peaches in one go.

So when he kept getting up to piss, they put it up to too many drinks, and one too many cans of peaches. And when he started to doze off where he sat next to the fire, they’d teased him about eating too much. Hosea—he’d been young, then, and Arthur hadn’t been half so heavy as he would be—had half carried him to his cot and tucked him in when he’d just flopped down on it, limp as a child’s doll.

And when he woke them up retching, they teased him again about eating too much. His eyes were glazed, and so they left a bucket beside his cot so he could go back to sleep. Dutch sat in the chair beside him, running his fingers through his hair, while Hosea went back to bed, planning on getting up early to go into town to follow up on some leads.

But he wouldn’t even have time to fall asleep before a screamed “HOSEA!” had him on his feet. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Dutch’s voice so panicked, so terrified, and he didn’t bother to put something on over his union suit, bolting barefoot for Arthur’s tent.

The man was standing over the boy, hands hovering over him as though afraid to touch him, as though he would shatter like fragile porcelain, eyes wild, so wide open that, even from the flap Hosea could make out the whites of his eyes. But Hosea didn’t even have to ask what was wrong, he could hear it himself.

The tent was filled with a horrible wheezing, each breath choked off and gasping. His hands were weakly clutching at the chest of his union suit, and his mouth hung open, whining with each panicked breath. Hosea hurried into the tent, ignoring Dutch, he could ask what had happened later—

_when he did, the man would tell him, shaking violently, eyes haunted, that Arthur had jolted awake, eyes dazed and confused. Before Dutch could do anything, his eyes had rolled back and he’d begun to convulse weakly, thrashing rapidly on the bed, and Dutch had frozen, he’d admit with a choked sob, unable to get the image out of his head, unable to do anything but watch until the convulsions ended—_

murmuring “It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay son, I’ve got you,” as he sat on the bed, cradling the boy carefully. His heart broke at the way Arthur looked at him, blue eyes glassy with fear, pleading, and Hosea carefully guided his head back to rest in his lap, arching his neck, “It’s alright, son, just breathe.” He ghosted his fingers along his throat, beginning to say, trying to keep his own panic out of his voice, “In, one, two, three,” he did the same, “Out, two, three,”

the boy whimpered, gasping desperately, throat squeaking as he tried to do as he was told, “ _‘sea _,” he pleaded, and Hosea, stroked his fingers through his hair, stooping down to press his lips to his forehead,

“I’ve got you, son, I’ve got you,” he crooned, looking up at Dutch for a moment; the man looked even more panicked than before, and he feared he’d have to talk _him _through breathing, too.

But Arthur was only becoming more and more breathless. His lips were taking on a horrific blue tinge, and alarm was thrumming through Hosea’s veins. He carefully man-handled the smaller boy, moving to lean him against his chest, allowing his head to loll back against his shoulder despite the urge to support it. His breathing eased up some, the wheezing not quite so bad, and Hosea began to murmur in his ear, “Calm down, son, you have to calm down. I’ve got you, I’ve got you. You have to breathe, breathe with me. Do you feel my chest? Breathe with me. Iiiin, two, three, four, five. Ouuut, two, three, four, five.”

He exaggerated his breathing, seeing Arthur move with the rise and fall of his own chest. The boy struggled, whimpering as he fumbled for each breath, Hosea bringing up his hand to stroke comfortingly between his ribs. To his relief, the blue tinge was beginning to leave his lips, and his breathing was becoming just that little bit easier. “That’s it, son, you’ve got it. You’ve got it, you’re doing _so good _, son. I knew you could do it.” He brought his other hand up to run it through the boy’s hair, beginning to count out loud again.

Arthur looked up at him, eyes wide, gasping “ _‘sea, _” pleadingly, and Hosea smiled apologetically as he carefully guided his head back to his shoulder, arching his neck back.

“Iiin, two, three, four, ooout, two, three, four,” he hummed, losing count of how many times, occasionally murmuring praise or comfort when it looked like the boy was beginning to panic again. Dutch kept leaning forward, looking as though he wanted to help, but clearly lost, having no idea what he could do. So he simply hovered, watching them, hands trembling and his own breathing too fast.

Finally, after who knows how long, the boy slumped against him, turning his head to hide his face in Hosea’s neck. The older man still wasn’t too happy with his breathing, he was still breathless, panting, but he wasn’t struggling as he’d been before, wasn’t wheezing or panicking. His hand came up to fumble at Hosea’s chest, weakly clinging to the threadbare fabric of his union suit, trying to ground him. Hosea began to rock him, murmuring “It’s okay, Arthur, you’re okay, you did _so good _, I’ve got you,”

The cot dipped, and he raised his eyes to see Dutch, sitting close at Arthur’s side, wrapping his arms around them both, “We’ve got you son.” He still looked half out of his mind but, seeing Arthur able to breathe now, even if he was still panting, still breathless as he gasped “Ho _sea _, Duuutch,” over and over, trying to ground himself even as they rocked him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothingly.

  
  


In the end, Arthur would be incredibly lucky. He would be weak for just over a week, confused and groggy and vomiting. Hosea would ride into town, and the doctor would give them a medicine to stop convulsions, to induce sleep and to stop vomiting. But he would come out of it a few pounds lighter, and relatively unscathed. They all managed to connect his sickness with eating so much, and never let him eat like that again—and they didn’t, either.

But he didn’t die, wasn’t permanently affected. He didn’t develop arrhythmia or heart failure, didn’t fall into a coma or develop paralysis.

It was all just an unfortunate, well meaning, accident.


End file.
